


the return

by gotham_ruaidh



Series: Gotham Writes for Imagine Claire & Jamie [43]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 11:05:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6852139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotham_ruaidh/pseuds/gotham_ruaidh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ideally, this takes place right after 02x03…all errors in the French language are my own, despite the efforts of many to help me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the return

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted at [Imagine Claire & Jamie](http://imagineclaireandjamie.tumblr.com/post/143743289615/the-return) on tumblr

He was in Scotland – he was sure of it. Mud, and damp wool, and heather. Far from the rot and foul odors that permeated these Frenchmen – did they not ever wash those damned wigs?

Murtagh stood on the small hill right behind the broch – watching smoke curl up from the chimney at the house – three fresh rabbits hanging beside his sporran. Should make a nice addition to supper –

The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Someone – something - was watching him. Slowly he reached for his dirk, and whirled to face the intruder…

…only to grab a fistful of bedclothes and elbow the interloper - standing beside the bed - somewhere in the soft parts.

“*Merde!*” Fergus exclaimed, doubling over in pain, clutching his privates.

“*Qu'est ce que c'est, mon petit hérisson?*” Suzette sleepily rolled over to face Murtagh, hair all wild from sleep – and from how they’d spent a few timeless hours in the deep night. “*C'est le voleur?*”

“Eh?” Murtagh sat up, scrubbing at his face, squinting at Fergus, who was still half-stunned by the blow. “What the devil are ye doing in here, ye wee baggage? Does a closed door mean an invitation to ye?”

“It’s late,” the boy gasped. “He - Milord – he’s not awake.”

“*Envoies-lui dehors!*” Suzette’s lovely, calloused hands skimmed Murtagh’s side. “*Á moins que tu veux qu'il nous regarde.*”

Murtagh lay a gentle hand on Suzette’s, but turned to the boy. “What do ye mean he’s no’ awake? It’s past dawn – he’s usually in the sitting room by now.”

Fergus straightened, grimacing. “The door to his and Milady’s bedchamber is locked, and there must be furniture up against it – I picked the lock and still the door will not open. He has not sent for the servants this morning, either.”

Suzette huffed. Murtagh kissed her fingers.

“All right – I’ll see if I can rouse him. Damn fool has probably taken ill, what with all the drinking and carrying on wi’ the daft Prince and these French fops in this filthy, stinking city…”

He continued muttering under his breath as he lay out his plaid, pleated it, rolled himself into it, and buckled it in place – to Fergus’ wide-eyed surprise and giggles from Suzette on the bed. He raised a bushy eyebrow at her in question.

“Can ye no’ cover yerself, *a leannan*?”

She shook her head and wrapped the sheet around her shoulders, still laughing.

“It is all right – I have seen many naked women before,” Fergus said softly, giving Murtagh a helping hand to stand upright.

“Mmphmm.” Murtagh turned once more to face the bed – watched Suzette blow him a kiss – and grinned like a fool all the way down the hall from the servants’ quarters to the master bedroom, Fergus at his side.

It was just as the lad had said – the lock was open, but the door would not budge. He glanced to the clock on the mantle – dripping wi’ cherubs, what the hell had Jared been thinking? – and saw it was already half past eight. Very unusual – on nights when he stayed at home, Jamie was always up and dressed no later than seven.

“Do you think he is unwell?” Fergus asked quietly, nervously rocking back and forth.

“I hope not. He’s due to meet wi’ the prince again this afternoon - outside that damn brothel, for once.”

Murtagh banged on the door. Five hard knocks.

He waited. Looking over at Fergus, he saw the lad holding his breath in anticipation.

Nothing.

Five more knocks. “Jamie!”

Still nothing. Murtagh sighed. “Do ye think the butler is strong enough to break down this door?”

Fergus paused, thinking.

“Perhaps him *and* the coachman? The coachman actually uses his arms to earn his wages. The butler - he just chases the maids.”

Three more bangs. “Jamie, lad! Are ye all right?”

Now he was worrit. What if the lass had taken ill? Or - God forbid - the bairn inside her was having troubles? What if a burglar had pried open the windows overnight and killed them in their beds? What if an assassin had snuck through the house and slit their throats, for aiding the prince? What if -

“Listen!”

Murtagh blinked harshly at Fergus’ whisper. Sure enough, there were heavy footsteps on the other side of the door - the sound of chairs being pushed back - and suddenly the door opened.

Jamie Fraser, Lord Broch Tuarach, stood before them, panting, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, naked. Grinning like an idiot.

“Dinna fash, I’m no’ dead. Far from it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Murtagh watched Fergus’ jaw drop in utter awe.

“Are you all right, milord?”

Jamie pushed his wild hair back from his face, scratching the side of his neck. Murtagh counted seven love bites blooming on his fair skin.

“Better than I’ve been in a long time, lad. Is someone asking for me?”

“Ye worrit him sick, sleeping in like one o’ those dandies.” Murtagh tried his best to admonish him - but couldn’t suppress a tiny smile at the thought that perhaps love had finally returned to the Fraser marriage bed. “It isna like ye to no’ be up at the crack o’ dawn, writing out yer letters.”

Jamie crossed his arms and leaned on the doorframe. “I had vera good reason this morning, Murtagh. And I’ll ask ye a wee favor.”

“Which is?”

“I need ye to send a letter to Duvernay’s secretary, telling him that I canna meet today. God knows I’ve waited on Charles many times before - I can take today to myself. He can wait on me today.”

“All o’ that? What should I tell him?”

Jamie smiled sweetly - Ellen’s smile. Murtagh was powerless to say no - and Jamie knew it.

“Tell him I’m indisposed.”

Claire suddenly emerged from the shadows, wrapped in Jamie’s plaid. She leaned against him and his arm automatically settled around her shoulders, nestling her against his side. She turned her face into his neck - and Fergus counted five love bites of her own.

“And then I’d like ye to ask the servants to bring us breakfast, but to leave it out in the sitting room. I willna be disturbed today. Can ye do that?”

Murtagh nodded, incredulous. “Anything else, then?”

“Can you please write Mother Hildegard that I won’t be going to l’Hôpital as planned today?” Claire’s voice was muffled against Jamie’s chest as he slowly, gently drew his fingers up and down her bare arm. “The baby - ”

“Aye, I understand. I’ll see to it.”

“Thank ye,” Jamie said quietly. “And take a bath, please, Fergus. I can smell ye from here.”

Fergus’ cheeks pinked, but he said nothing - mesmerized, as was Murtagh, by the simple sight of Milord and Milady so - in tune with each other.

Jamie nodded - and picked up Claire - and kicked the door shut. The heavy oak was not too thick to prevent their laughter from echoing through the sitting room.

“It is so different when the house is happy,” Fergus said quietly, absently tugging at a string on the sleeve of his shirt. “It is true laughter. At Maison Elise - there was a lot of laughter, but it was not - not real. Not from love.”

Murtagh lay a hand on the lad’s shoulder and gently steered him back to the servants’ quarters. “Aye, I understand. Let’s leave them, aye? Looks like we’re all in for a day of rest.”

He shooed Fergus downstairs to bathe with the stable lads - and quietly shut the door to Suzette’s room, watching her doze on the bed.

“*Viens,*” she said softly after a long moment, her long, pale arm extended in welcome.

He took her hand - and he did.

—–

Merde! — Shit!

Qu'est ce que c'est, mon petit hérisson? — What is it, my little hedgehog?

C'est le voleur? — Is it the pickpocket?

Envoies-lui dehors! — Send him out!

Á moins que tu veux qu'il nous regarde — Unless you want him to watch

Viens — Come


End file.
